


Smoke Dreams from Smoke Rings

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Louis, Dom Louis, First Time, Humor, Kink Discovery, M/M, Nerd Harry, Pain Kink, Praise Kink, Riding, Seduction, Sixth Form/College AU, Smoking, Suave Gay Louis, Sub Harry, Virginity, bdsm undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12880986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “When I get a craving?” Louis says, “You have to help me chase it away. Distract me”Oh. Harry can think of about one hundred different ways to distract Louis Tomlinson. One hundred better uses for his mouth, for example. “Erm,” he squeaks, well aware of the fact that he's grinning and dimpling and blushing all at once, his whole face a suddenly mortifying warzone of transparent emotion. “How?”“By hitting my arm as hard as you can,” Louis announces, holding out the arm in question. It bridges the gap between them, stiff and expectant, and Harry stares, not entirely sure if Louis’s being serious, if this is some prank that he isn’t clever enough to understand, or if the promise of touching Louis under any circumstances is so titillating that he just can’t process it. Louis rolls up the sleeve of his hoodie then, revealing his pale inner arm in maddening increments, pushing Harry somewhere between drooling and vomiting, he isn’t sure which. He just knows that his mouth is flooded, and the barely-there ghost of Louis’s veins through his skin is the prettiest thing that he’s ever seen. “Go on, hit me,” Louis orders. “Don’t be shy,”---or,  Louis enlists Harry to help him with his bad habit.





	Smoke Dreams from Smoke Rings

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is actually a barely recognizable remix of a fic I wrote in another fandom, very very many years ago. This version is much better and much funnier in my opinion, and is so different from the original don't think it can even be safely called a remix anymore? Anyway. I think there are only two or three of you who read or will remember the original at all, hopefully this one will blight it's predecessor from your mind entirely! However, for those of you who haven't read the original, the key carry over features are arm-smacking as a means to quit smoking, comparing dick-size, and awkward first times. Everything else is new! 
> 
> Thank you Hurdy Gurdy for the fantastic beta job as always! I know the story ticks a lot of your boxes, so hopefully it was fun more than it was work. <3 
> 
> Some notes: there's def some imperfectly explored and negotiated kink in here! They're very young (Harry is 16 and Louis is 18 or 19) and have virtually no experience talking about sex. So it's one of those stories of mine where attempts at check-ins are made but only within the character's presumed capability. That being said, everything is explicitly consensual. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry’s about to settle down into the breakfast nook with some Yorkshire, his cat Dusty, and the new book his mum brought him from the library (it’s about whales, and he isn’t afraid of whales necessarily, but he’s open to learning more about them so that his apprehension concerning their largeness can manifest into something more respectful) when the doorbell rings. 

Because he's home alone, Harry’s naked, so he sets down the whale book and his tea on the table next to Dusty and skids across the kitchen tile in his socks. “Hold on...just a moment!” he yells at the door before dashing up the stairs to his room, skipping every other step like he always does. He throws on his bathrobe, wondering who could be ringing at eleven am on a Sunday. It seems too early for the Girl Guides to be asking for donations, and their next door neighbor Mary usually knocks because the bell is too loud for her hearing aid, which means it must be someone new. Maybe a salesperson or someone looking for their lost dog.

It doesn’t occur to him that it could be anyone important or worthy of impressing, so he doesn’t fix his hair or check himself out in the mirror to make sure that he doesn't have toothpaste in the corner of his mouth or anything. He just ties his robe up, races back down the stairs, and throws the door open. 

_Fuck._

The world. It just...ends. Harry’s life flashes before his eyes, every decision he's ever made up to this point revealed to be an unsavoury mistake because they all eventually led him _here_. Standing in his foyer, decidedly _naked_ under his ratty and mortifyingly stained bathrobe, while _Louis Tomlinson_ leans in his doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his red chinos, looking as gorgeous and charming and radiant and gay as ever. 

Harry’s mouth goes dry, rendering him speechless, which is a blessing because he would surely say something stupid had he the capability to speak at all. 

Louis waves limp-wristedly, like a beauty queen. “Hiya, Harold. How are you this fine Sunday morning?” 

Harry finally manages to awkwardly grit out, “Gemma’s not here,” wishing it were appropriate to slam the door and run away; it’s the fastest way to disappear, considering he can’t simply melt into the floor and forget this ever happened. Instead, he gathers his robe around his waist self-consciously because Louis’s _looking_ at him, brows raised, all pretty and elegant because Louis’s one of those people who looks effortlessly _good_ just by simply _existing_. He’s perfect, which makes sense because Harry has very high crush standards. This is also probably why Harry’s never done anything with a boy but look longingly and from afar. He is, if nothing else, an expert at wistful pining. 

“Gemma’s with my mum...they went into town,” he blurts to add clarification to his former statement. It comes out all short and snappy and weird, though, because he’s incapable of doing anything save for acting excruciatingly awkward in Louis’s presence.

“Well,” Louis starts, adjusting his shiny chestnut fringe, pushing it out of his eyes even though it falls right back down. He looks like a fucking model. Or like someone from a boyband. Harry wishes that he could be reading up on whales right about now, that he had pretended no one was home when the godforsaken doorbell rang because looking at Louis and his Boyband Hair is _physically_ painful. “That’s perfectly fine because m’actually looking for you,” Louis tells him, ending the world once again. 

Harry blinks six or twenty times. Louis can’t….he can’t be looking for him. It just doesn’t make sense. Harry and Louis aren’t even really _friends_. They're _friendly_ , maybe, but Louis is Harry’s sister’s friend more than anything else; they’re in the same year at school, and they both do musical theater. Even before Gemma and Louis hung out, though, Harry _knew_ Louis, was distantly aware of him in a way that was probably a little creepy. Harry’s family moved from Cheshire to Yorkshire a little over a year ago, and Louis might have been the very first person that Harry had noticed in any sort of lasting way because (and there’s simply no other way to put it) he was the first clearly gay person Harry had ever seen in real life who wasn't also old and/or a relative. To make that already intriguing feature _truly riveting_ , though, he was also _easily_ the fittest boy Harry had ever seen, hands down. 

Needless to say, Harry has spent all his time living in Yorkshire pining desperately for Louis Tomlinson, who’s not only gay and fit, but who’s also hilarious and kind and confident and the sort of mischievous that isn't quite dangerous yet still makes boys like Harry twist up in an envious sort of longing. He’s everything good, and Harry would like very much to be his friend, if not his concubine, but he tends to seize up and get silent and generally embarrassing whenever Louis’s around, so he’s never really graduated from being seen as Gemma’s awkward little brother who likes cats and reading and the bakery where he works. 

Which is why it makes no fucking sense that Louis’s allegedly here to see _him_. He doesn’t understand. “I don’t understand,” he says, every ounce of charm or skill for social interaction that he’s ever possessed evaporating along with his dignity. 

Louis seems unperturbed. He just grins a dazzling grin and says, “I have a very important task for you, Harry Styles. Are you in, or are you out?” 

Harry’s in. If Louis asks him to go lie down in a pit of poisonous snakes, he’s still in. He knows this is bad and probably pathetic, but he just can’t help it. “Can I ask what it is, first?” Harry counters slowly and skeptically, somehow miraculously managing to fake his way around appearing overeager. 

“I’ll tell you all the details in the car. But first, let’s go to a caff, yeah? M’starving, and I bet you could go for a sandwich. No one ever says no to a sandwich except for sandwich haters, and who would want to interact with one of them, anyway?” Louis asks rhetorically, jingling his car keys like an invitation, eyes wide and expectant and lovely and blue. Too blue for this dreary, drizzly day, just like his trousers are too red. He’s too bright, a glorious spot of glitter amid Harry’s formerly dull Sunday plans, and Dusty will miss him and his tea is getting cold and he would really like to be less anxious about whales, but when the boy of your midnight fantasies is on your doorstep trying to enlist you for a secret mission, you don’t waste time asking questions. You just hop on that train. 

“M’naked under here,” Harry announces, colouring, because it’s his destiny to make a fool of himself every fucking time he opens his mouth, apparently. He looks down intently at his feet, at his black-and-white-striped penguin socks, which will also have to go before he actually faces the world. 

“Well, _I_ don’t mind,” Louis smiles, spreading his fingers dramatically over his heart, touching his own toned, lovely chest through his clingy black hoodie. “But I can’t speak for anyone else. Go put some clothes on, then. I’ll be in the car.” 

And that’s how Harry ends up turning his room inside out for the perfect “Going on an Unofficial Not-Date with Louis Tomlinson” outfit, even though Louis has already seen him in penguin socks and a robe. He combs and then strategically musses his hair how he likes it, puts on some deodorant, and brushes his teeth again, just in case. It’s always good to be prepared for a kiss, Harry thinks. 

And then, after smooching Dusty goodbye on her very soft cat-head, he heads out to face the impossibility of _Louis Tomlinson’s car_ and _Louis Tomlinson’s very important task._

—-

Louis’s listening to Green Day and smoking a cigarette when Harry drops into the passenger’s side on shaky legs, wearing a maroon, down, sleeveless jacket, which isn’t cool at all but is at least warm. Harry doesn’t particularly like punk music, nor does he particularly enjoy the smell of menthol smoke, but because Louis’s effortlessly gorgeous and makes everything look good, he's willing to reconsider. After all, cigarettes and punk are worlds better than poisonous snakes, and Harry was ready to jump into a pit of those if that was what Louis wanted, so. Sitting in Louis’s beat-up Logan MCV while Billie Joe’s hoarse wail rattles through the busted speakers actually feels glamourous in comparison. 

“Sorry for the mess,” Louis says, grabbing Barbies and lunchboxes and handfuls of rubbish from Harry’s leg space before chucking them unceremoniously into the back seat. “S’me mum’s car, hence all the kid-shit. I have about one hundred little sisters, so expect there to be plastic horses in every cupholder and whatnot. Peppermint?” he asks, offering a swirly red-and-white candy he just found on the floor. Harry’s about to say _thank you_ and take it, even though it’s half-unwrapped and there’s lint clinging to it, when Louis laughs and tosses that into the back, too. 

He sits up and taps ash out the window, and Harry has never, ever thought smoking was sexy, but here he is, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the glowing cherry of Louis’s cigarette end, thinking all sorts of inappropriate thoughts. There’s something about the _way_ Louis holds it that makes the whole thing seem smooth and delicate and unreal. Harry has only seen boys smoke with the cigarette clenched tightly between their middle finger and thumb, but Louis’s holding his loosely between his index and middle fingers, gesturing with it all soft and cavalier as he announces, “So. I suppose you’re wondering why I kidnapped you, yeah?” 

Harry licks his lips, tearing his eyes away from the spiraling trail of smoke. “I dunno if I’d call it a kidnapping, necessarily. More like a gentle but firm persuasion.” 

It sounds weird and sexual, so he regrets it until Louis laughs, the sound wide and open and high, like silverware against glass. Harry’s delighted that a human laugh can actually sound like that. “More firm than gentle, but alright,” Louis concedes, cocking his head, eyes crinkled at the corners as he takes a long drag on his cigarette before turning on the engine and carefully backing his car out of Harry’s driveway. He waits until they’re properly on the street and driving before he adds, “I need you to help me with something very important.” 

_Is it a handjob?,_ Harry wants to ask. He hopes it’s a handjob. He really hopes it’s at least something in that general vein of activity, like, Louis has a new kissing technique that he’d like to try out on someone before he attempts it at a kissing tournament or whatever one does related to kissing when one is as stunningly attractive as Louis is. “What?” Harry asks. The suspense is killing him. 

“Well, I got tickets to see Rise Against in February. Trouble is, I got ‘em for the same weekend as me nan’s birthday, and we're having a big party. My mum told me I could leave the party early to go to the show under two conditions. First one is I find a babysitter.” 

This is it. Louis has heard through Gemma that Harry’s a spectacular babysitter and absolutely adores children, and now he’s going to employ him to take care of his sisters while he goes to see Rise Against, a group that Harry has never heard of before but suspects is another punk band, which is cool because two Green Day songs have already happened, and he’s pretty sure he loves punk now, almost as much as he loves the smell of cheap tobacco. He’s going to make such a lasting impression on Louis’s family and siblings that when Louis returns, they’ll sing Harry’s praises extensively, and Louis will realize that they should probably just get married and have a bunch of children of their own. It’s a foolproof plan. “I love kids,” Harry says, a slow grin splitting his face.

“Good to know, but I already got a sitter. I need you for the second condition,” Louis explains, gaze flicking over to Harry’s and holding his eyes pleadingly, so fucking blue and icy and warm all at once, too many contradictions rolled into a single boy. 

Harry’s stomach drops, heart sinking and grin falling away as if it were never there. “Oh...and what’s that?” he makes himself ask, trying not to get too discouraged by this hiccup in their eventual marriage plans. 

“She told me I had to quit smoking,” Louis sighs. “And I thought it would be easy, but it’s _not_. The show is only a month away, and I’m still absolutely hopeless. I need someone who's gonna hold me accountable...a goody-two-shoes, wannabe-posh type like yourself.” 

Harry bristles. _Goody-two-shoes, wannabe-posh type?_ Is _that_ how Louis sees him? He is _not_ a goody two shoes. (He’s gotten drunk, like, four whole times, and once he shared a joint with Niall, _thank you very much_. He hadn’t even enjoyed it, all it really did was make him cough a lot, but _still_. It’s the thought that counts.) He’s _also_ not _wannabe posh_ , whatever that means; he lives above a fucking pub in Cheshire, and he only wears blazers and pocket squares with his trousers because he thinks they’re cool, not because he wants to look like a public school boy. He could tell Louis any of this, about the joint or the pub or the blazers, but instead of defending himself, he asks, “Erm, no offense, but why me? Like, don’t you have other friends?” 

“Of course, I do,” Louis snaps, “but they all smoke, too, so they aren’t actually helpful...just makes the cravings worse.” 

“So…you’re using me. Because I don’t smoke. You don’t _actually_ want to hang out or anything,” Harry concludes, totally unable to keep the self-deprecation from colouring his words. He covers his mouth with his hand because he’s pretty sure he’s, like, physically pouting. 

“No, it’s not like that, exactly,” Louis says, putting his cigarette between his lips so that he can reach across the divide between the passenger and driver seats to _touch Harry’s leg_ , laying the whole warm, maddening weight of his hand on top of Harry’s thigh for a moment and squeezing. It’s just a split-second before it’s gone, and Harry _knows_ that it’s meant to be reassuring, that it isn’t a come-on or anything, but that doesn’t stop it from being the sexual peak of his entire teenaged existence. “I wouldn't have asked you if you were, like, a prick or a prude or summat. M’gonna be hanging out with you after all, so I asked someone I already liked,” he explains, shrugging. 

Harry shivers. He can forgive Louis for calling him a wannabe-posh type if Louis actually _likes_ him. Even though that seems impossible, given Harry’s tendency to sputter wordlessly and hide every time they’ve ever spoken. “You don’t even know me,” he reminds Louis. “I _could_ be a prick.” 

“But you aren’t,” Louis grins, shaking his head. “Gem isn’t, anyhow, and you’ve always been nice every time m’over at yours, eating your food. I mean, I’ll bet you’re _weird_ , maybe, but not a prick.” The way his eyebrows lift up when he says _weird_ is sort of hypnotizing, and Harry realizes with a thrilling lick of excitement in his gut that Louis’s _teasing_ him, poking fun, being cheeky like they're proper _mates_. It’s fabulous. “So...are you in?” Louis asks hopefully. 

Harry’s eyes zero in on Louis’s cigarette, and he purses his lips. “I’m in.” 

“Wonderful!” Louis exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as they brake at a stoplight. Then Harry reaches out, as if his hands are possessed beyond his will, and plucks the cigarette right out from between Louis’s fingers. “Hey!” Louis yelps. 

“Thought the whole point was to quit, yeah?” Harry challenges, suddenly mesmerized by the cigarette in his hand, realizing that his need to touch it has nothing at all to do with making Louis quit and everything to do with touching something that was formerly touching Louis. The cigarette is a little damp from Louis’s spit because it was _just_ in Louis’s _mouth_. Where other things have been. Things like…cocks. Harry’s touching something that has been inside Louis’s mouth, where cocks have also presumably been. He experiences a heady rush at this thought, overwhelmed by the fact that Gay Louis’s Gay Mouth has been on the cigarette in Harry’s own Gay Hand. It’s, like, three steps away from Gay Sex, which is closer than Harry has ever been to such a thing before. He feels hot all over, scalp prickling and cock twitching in his joggers. “If you’re quitting, why are you smoking?” he asks breathlessly, pretending that he’s only doing his job.

“It was a goodbye cigarette,” Louis gripes, sighing. “But I suppose you’re right. You can put it out.” 

Harry hastily opens the car door and grinds the butt into the pavement before flicking it away. Their light changes, and he scrambles back inside, feeling all shivery and jittery, like he never wants to wash his fingers again now that they’ve touched something marked in Louis Tomlinson’s spit. “You’re good at this...knew you would be,” Louis says, sounding equal parts disappointed and impressed. “One of them good boys, yeah?” 

Harry bites the inside of his cheek to keep from actually making a sound, some whimper-groan hybrid that would blow his very suave cover as someone who has _definitely not_ spent an entire year wanking to the idea of Louis Tomlinson painstakingly, carefully, lovingly coaching him through his very first blowjob. _One of them good boys, yeah?_ echoes in cruel repeat inside of his head, hotter and dirtier each time, and Harry has to cross his legs lest he give himself away. “That’s why you enlisted me, right?” he asks weakly. 

Louis nods. “Glad I have the right man for the job, I guess.” 

And Harry feels very proud, even if Louis looks sort of miserable at the prospect of the cigarette-less future he’s about to face. Harry’s going to be _great_ at this, the very best anti-smoking coach there ever was. He’s going to _woo_ Louis with his anti-smoking ways. “So,” he says, slapping his hands together and rubbing them excitedly. “What do I do?”

“The biggest help will be if you don’t do it yourself. It’s already hard...damn near _impossible_...when I’m surrounded by other lads lighting up, not giving a shit that I'm trying to quit. So just...please don’t pick up the habit,” Louis explains, pulling into the largely empty carpark of a hole-in-the-wall cafe. Harry has passed by this place hundreds of times before, on his way to school or when he’s visiting his aunt who lives just outside of town. It seems new, though, to come here in Louis’s company: he and Louis, alone together, against a storm-grey sky. Louis makes the whole world feel different, brings light and sunshine to formerly dusty corners of Harry’s consciousness. 

“I can do that,” Harry agrees, watching Louis’s profile as he kills the engine, the long, lovely sweep of his lashes against his cheek. Harry wonders what it might be like to kiss him there, where that soft curl meets skin. He licks his lips, nervous and dry-mouthed just thinking about it. “What else?” 

“You can help me go through my room and find all the boxes that I’ve stashed and make me throw ‘em away. Or, like, burn ‘em. I’ll just fish them out of the rubbish bin when I get desperate if we don’t do something more permanent,” he adds. 

Harry nods eagerly, thrilled by the prospect of going to Louis’s _house_ and seeing the inside of Louis’s _room_ where Louis has probably _wanked_. “Alright,” he says, trying to sound cool, to keep the raw excitement from his voice. 

“Oh, and when I get a craving?” Louis continues, turning and looking at Harry, who’s abruptly rooted to his seat and incapable of moving as a result. “You have to help me chase it away. Distract me” 

_Oh_. Harry can think of about one hundred different ways to distract Louis Tomlinson. One hundred better uses for his mouth, for example. “Erm,” he squeaks, well aware of the fact that he's grinning and dimpling and blushing all at once, his whole face a suddenly mortifying warzone of transparent emotion. “How?” 

“By hitting my arm as hard as you can,” Louis announces, holding out the arm in question. It bridges the gap between them, stiff and expectant, and Harry stares, not entirely sure if Louis’s being serious, if this is some prank that he isn’t clever enough to understand, or if the promise of touching Louis under any circumstances is so titillating that he just can’t process it. Louis rolls up the sleeve of his hoodie then, revealing his pale inner arm in maddening increments, pushing Harry somewhere between drooling and vomiting, he isn’t sure which. He just knows that his mouth is flooded, and the barely-there ghost of Louis’s veins through his skin is the prettiest thing that he’s ever seen. “Go on, hit me,” Louis orders. “Don’t be shy,”

Harry peers up at him through his own fringe, still not entirely sure that this is happening. “This will help?” he asks. 

“Yes, it’ll help...I do it to m’self all the time,” Louis says impatiently, plucking a pink hair elastic that he has on his wrist and letting it snap back down with a muted _thwup_. “Or I use this rubber band if it’s too awkward to hit myself in public. But it’s like wanking, you know...better if someone else does it, yeah?” 

Harry, tragically, does _not_ know, as he’s the only person who has ever touched his lonely dick. He can’t even bother feeling sorry for himself in this moment, though, because Louis’s talking about wanking and offering his gloriously toned forearm up for Harry to touch. In fact, he’s _asking_ Harry to touch it. Who is Harry to deny him? To leave him to the evil clutches of his cravings unassisted? Harry wants to be a Good Boy. 

He rolls up his own sleeve and smacks Louis right below the soft-looking ditch of his elbow. 

There isn’t much muscle behind his strike because his hands are shaking: this is a lot for a boy who thought he’d be reading about whales all day and instead ended up getting ordered around by Louis Tomlinson and touching his spit-wet cigarettes. Louis makes a face. “Is that it? I said _as hard as you can._ You can do better, can't you?” 

Offended and wanting very badly to impress Louis, Harry smacks him again, hard enough this time that Louis winces, an actual cracking sound echoing through the car. When he peels back, Louis’s skin is reddened from the impact, and something about that makes Harry feel a little sick, like he did something wrong, like he should bend down and kiss the sting away because Louis doesn’t deserve to have even mildly irritated skin. “Sorry,” he whispers through his teeth.

“No, that was better,” Louis assures him, rubbing at the mark Harry left. “But _surely_ that isn’t the _hardest_ that you can smack someone? It barely smarted.” 

“I don’t know! I’m trying my best,” Harry yells in frustration. And then. He’s genuinely _not_ baiting Louis into touching him, he’s _not,_ it just sort of happens as he blurts, “Show me,” and holds out his own arm. 

Louis stares, caught off guard for a moment while he rubs his mouth thoughtfully with his palm. “Are you sure? I’ve been told I can hit pretty hard.” 

“No, show me that you’re so much better at arm smacking. If you are...prove it, then,” Harry mumbles, now totally and irreversibly invested in getting Louis’s hands on him, even if it hurts. “Show me how,” he adds, stomach tight and hot, and, _god_ , he must really be tragically deprived of contact if the thought of getting struck on his forearm has his prick stirring where it’s nestled against his thigh, embarrassing and traitorous. 

“Alright. Brace yourself, Harold,” Louis cautions, holding Harry’s wrist delicately to stabilize him while he brings his other hand down, swift and sharp and effective. 

It _hurts_ , and Harry’s _at least_ half-hard in the span of 1.5 seconds. “Oh,” he yelps, snatching his arm back quickly before it somehow reveals to Louis that he’s _turned on_. Harry knows an arm technically can’t reveal such a thing about a dick, but he feels very _exposed_ right now, split open and obvious under Louis’s sharp, blue gaze, burning up in the heat of his smirk. “Ow,” he whines, rubbing his elbow. “Guess you’re good at it.” 

“Thank you,” Louis nods graciously before gesturing for Harry to hold out his hand, which he automatically does, in spite of his better judgement. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? That was okay?” Louis asks. 

“Yeah. M’just…impressed,” Harry answers slowly, voice cutting out because suddenly Louis is _touching him_ , fingers smoothing up to the rapidly pinkening handprint on Harry’s skin. 

“God, look at you...so red, like a sunburn.” He’s quiet, almost breathless, and Harry isn’t exactly sure if he’s supposed to respond, which is fine because he, like, couldn’t if he tried. His mind is nothing but blissed-out, hazy static as he drinks up the miracle of Louis _touching him_ and touching him _tenderly_ , checking in like he didn’t really want to hurt Harry at all. It makes Harry sort of wish there _had_ been poisonous snakes, or that he could be, like, maimed by a bear if only so that Louis could _take care_ of him like this after the fact, nurse his wounds and bandage him up and smooth his hair away from his brow and tuck it behind his ear like he’s in a romance novel. Louis keeps touching Harry, who isn’t sure what any of this means, really. He just knows that he _likes_ it. Loves it, even. 

As if Louis can sense that Harry’s being weird about the whole exchange, he drops his hands quickly and shakes his hair out, inhaling decidedly as if to clear his head. Then, he extends his arm again. “Like that, yeah? Don’t hold back this time...hit me like you mean it.” 

Harry does, eyes screwed shut tightly in determination as he brings his hand down hard and fast. This time Louis actually yelps, snatching his arm back to his body defensively. “Ouch...perfect,” he wheezes. 

“That was good?” Harry asks, voice hopeful. He feels like it was good, his hand hot and stingy, the impact from Louis hitting him still resounding throughout his forearm, tingling in a way that makes him feel...special? Like he has a smacking superpower instilled in him from the single, sublime smack Louis dealt him, like as long as he has this handprint on his skin, he can do anything and do it well because he’s a Good Boy. It’s weird and he knows it, but Louis looks pleased and isn’t smoking a cigarette, so Harry supposes it can't be _all_ bad. 

“Very, very good,” Louis assures him with a bright, warm smile, and, _fuck_ , Harry could melt right there into a puddle on the floor. “You do it just like that...three times fast...every time I tell you I have a craving, and I’ll be cured by the time the show rolls around,” Louis announces. “Which calls for a celebratory round of chips and sandwiches, my treat. C’mon, Harold.” 

Harry trails after Louis, feeling like he’s floating as he thumbs over the handprint on his forearm, wishing so badly that it would bruise and wondering what the fuck is wrong with him. 

—-

Two corned beef sandwiches later, they run into a problem. 

“Your smacks are getting weak...I still want a smoke,” Louis complains, the third craving of the meal. He shoves some chips into his mouth, sucking the salt from his fingers, and this is why Harry can’t fucking hit him hard enough, really, because he’s _distracted_ and turned on and it’s so hard to hurt someone when you’re actively fantasizing about that person throwing you up against a wall and snogging you silly. Harry can hardly think; he’s just sitting here mechanically eating while he mostly stares at Louis’s fingers disappearing into his mouth, one by one, and coming out spit-shiny. “Do me again,” Louis orders, and it goes straight to Harry’s cock. 

Louis holds out his arm, and Harry tries very, very hard, but he just…can’t. He can’t pack a punch when he's half-hard and his own arm _hurts_ from the repeated hitting, and not in the good way, where there’s a buzzing, an impact-sting, but in an achey, exhausted way. “I feel bad hurting you,” he confesses to Louis, though this is only partially true. “It was easier in the car because you hit me first, so it was, like, me getting you back, and we were even? But this just makes me feel guilty.” 

Louis shakes his head, beaming like Harry is incomprehensible and therefore charming. “Would it be better if I hit you first every time? And we, like, traded blows?” he asks, probably joking but not sounding at all like he’s joking. 

Harry _actually chokes_ on his mouthful of lemon water, managing to spew a significant amount of it all over the table like a fucking natural disaster. Louis actually pats his back to help him recover and has enough tact to say, “Shit, did you swallow wrong?” like he doesn’t _know_ Harry was simply compromised by the idea of _trading blows_ following an actual real-life proposition to repeatedly hit Harry’s forearm like he's been longing for. When Harry gets his voice back, the first thing he says is, “It would definitely help if you hit me, too. Like, definitely.” He sounds, perhaps, a tiny bit too eager. 

Louis sighs and rubs his palms over his face. He probably finds Harry very exasperating, which is fair because Harry likely _is_ exasperating. He can’t even properly smack someone in the arm without being smacked first, which probably makes him seem like he’s weirdly obsessed with egalitarianism or justice or something along those lines, instead of the far more likely and mortifying fact that he’s so into Louis that he can’t manage his reactions around him, and also that he, like….might be turned on by pain, or something. He’s a disgrace, and he’s clearly a depraved disgrace because instead of finding a way _around_ this mess, he’s throwing himself headlong into it. “Okay,” Louis says, sitting up and looking Harry in the eye again, face inscrutably blank. “Give me your arm.” 

Harry can’t help but grin like an absolute maniac as he does it, an uncontrollable reflexive reaction that he just can’t keep off his face. He grits his teeth together as Louis hits him, trying not to think about his prick, which is already too hard considering that they’re, like, out in public. The caff is mostly empty, and the other customers aren’t paying attention to them anyway, but still, Harry would like very much to not come in his pants while he’s sat in a sticky plastic booth, thighs stuck to grey-green vinyl upholstery. 

The sting is delicious, though, so he bites his tongue to keep from making a sound. “Better?” Louis asks, grimacing, and Harry can only nod. 

Arm tingling delightfully, he hits Louis back. “Good,” he sighs afterward in apparent satisfaction, stuffing his mouth full of chips again and smiling a tight, private little smile to himself. “S’been, like, an hour and a half now without a ciggie. You’re fantastic at this.” 

Harry preens. This is, like, the best day of his life. 

As they sit in their booth tucked at the back by the swinging doors to the kitchen, they chat animatedly about nothing. Just loose, casual conversation punctuated by the occasional exchange of arm slaps, during which Harry learns that Louis’s taking a year off before uni and working babysitting gigs to save some money. He also learns that Louis volunteers at the local community theatre, helping out with the kids’ classes and doing stage makeup for the productions. Most importantly, he learns that Louis’s _single_ , which he didn’t even _ask_ about, Louis just volunteered this information, announcing that _it’s good my hobbies involve kids, to be honest, because I can’t smoke around them. Plus, I’m single, so I might as well fill up all me extra time, right?_. It seems sort of like a non sequitur to Harry, which is promising because maybe Louis was looking for an _excuse_ to bring it up, like he wants Harry to know, for some reason, that he’s lacking in the boyfriend department. 

It’s wishful thinking, Harry knows, but at the same time, simply hanging out with Louis _at all_ would have been wishful thinking when he woke up this morning, so maybe it’s, like, semi-plausible wishful thinking. 

Eventually, Harry’s nerves ease into something that he can stomach, and he realizes that he’s actually quite hungry. He finishes his chips instead of just watching Louis artfully annihilate his own, while Louis sits patiently and sips his tea before paying (for _both_ of them, much to Harry’s warring thrill and embarrassment) with a handful of crumpled bills that he fishes out of his pocket. “On to mine,” Louis announces, smiling in this way that makes Harry’s stomach clench at the devilish _brightness_ of it all. It’s almost suggestive, or maybe that’s wishful thinking, too. “Bring your slapping hand.” 

It’s attached to Harry, of course, so he has no choice. But still, just _hearing_ Louis put it like that sends a spark of electricity down his spine before it collects low and smouldering in his gut. He’s going to Louis’s _house_ ; he’s going to see Louis’s _room_. Louis’s Gay Room where he has likely had Gay Sex before. Harry’s equal parts jealous (of Louis for having Gay Sex and of whoever has had Gay Sex with Louis) and excited (because this feels like a revelation, sort of, a crossed line even though he isn’t sure where the line is and who’s doing the crossing). 

Once they're back in the car and on the road, Louis breaks the amicable silence. “So, Harold,” he starts conversationally. “You listened to me blather on about my life forever…what about you? What’s your story?” He turns to look at Harry, eyes wide and curious as the blue fire of them burns into Harry’s _soul_. 

Harry can’t remember a single fact about his life right now save for _I, too, am gay and can’t want to be in your room where the bedsheets probably smell like your skin_ , so to spare himself from the shame of blurting out such a creepy, shameful thing, Harry stalls. “Erm. I dunno if I have a _story_ , necessarily.” 

“Sure you do, everyone does,” Louis explains, eyes back on the road, which is nice because it means that Harry can actually breathe. “Just…tell me something about yourself. I feel like I don't know much about you since you’re always so quiet whenever we’ve hung out. Gem says you’re a secret ham, though.” 

Harry loves his sister, but right now in this moment he’s feeling quite resentful. The thing is, he’s _not_ quiet and he _is_ a ham, just not around Louis Tomlinson, who has historically made him very awkward and shy and pink. This likely means that Louis has a very limited and inaccurate perception of him, and he’s determined to correct that. “I…I do like to perform, I guess. Gemma’s probably referring to my mean karaoke game.” 

Louis laughs, sounding positively delighted. “And you’re funny,” he observes, sounding neither surprised nor skeptical, which makes Harry squirm delightedly because his sense of humour isn’t always something that people pick up on or _get_ right away. It’s subtle and relies on timing, and when you’re in a raucous group of lads from school, that style of delivery flies under the radar. “I like that.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says politely. He can only get out two words at a time right now, otherwise he’ll dissolve into one of those huge, manic hyena grins that he can't control, and Louis will know everything there is to know about him. Best to maintain an air of mystery. 

“So…what else besides karaoke? What’s your favourite type of sweet? What bands do you listen to? Are you hung? You seem hung. One of them skinny boys with a giant willy, yeah?” Louis asks, the sharp and electric glint of his smile unbearable to look at. 

It goes right through Harry’s heart. Spears him, basically, leaves him theoretically choking on his theoretical blood. He sputters a bit, turning spectacularly red as he manages to get out a stunned, “What?!” from between chattering teeth. So much for mystery. 

Louis laughs again, high and bright. “I’m saying that you’re probably big for your size. A shower, you know? There’s a type of lad who’s, like….skinny and hairless until he hits twenty and buffs up, and usually, in my experience, those lads have huge pricks. You seem like that type of lad, Harold. It’s a compliment, take it.” 

Harry’s reeling. Louis is complimenting him, and not in a casual, _you seem like a nice person,_ or, _you’re funny,_ or even, _you have pretty eyes,_ but _you seem like you’re hung, and I appreciate that,_ which is inarguably flirting, Harry thinks. “I’m not hairless,” is what he ends up saying when he gets control of his voice again, and Louis laughs even harder this time, tilting his head against the back of his seat, eyes crinkled up at the corners. 

“Good to know. So you _are_ hung...that’s what you’re telling me,” Louis says, so _easily_ , like he just asks his friends how big they are _all the time,_ like this is a perfectly normal conversation topic for two mates alone in a car. 

“It’s...I dunno, I don't have much to compare it to, but I guess, like. From what I know, it’s…above average,” Harry stutters, stumbling awkwardly through it, his cock perking up in his trousers _once again_ , like it can tell that it’s being talked about. He usually feels a sense of pride concerning his above-average-sized prick, but now that it’s being discussed, and by _Louis Tomlinson_ at that, he feels weird and shy and squirmy about it, like he almost wishes he _wasn’t_ big, so that he could avoid awkward questions and instead reply indignantly or make a joke or do anything other than sputter with weird, misplaced guilt. Louis’s just so pretty and confident, and it makes Harry so _stupid_. 

Louis nods sagely, as he’s likely an expert when it comes to Big Pricks. “Knew it,” he says quietly, almost to himself. 

And if Harry wasn’t a fucking idiot, he’d just let it go. But he’s a fucking idiot, a _big_ fucking idiot, because instead of bringing up the weather or football or school or literally anything else, no matter how boring or irrelevant, he asks, “What about you?” 

“What about me what?” Louis counters, eyes still fixed on the road. 

He's inadvertently giving Harry an _out_ , and if Harry had his wits about him, he’d take it, but his wits are long, long gone, so instead, he bumbles onward, “Your…are _you_ hung?” 

Louis gasps, sounding scandalized, thus implying that it’s okay for him to ask Harry about his dick but not okay for Harry to return the favour, and Harry’s suddenly terrified that he fucked up. He’s about to spiral into a complicated backtracking maneuver when Louis bursts into laughter instead, shaking his fringe out of his face and stealing looks at Harry through his lashes, eyes so smile-scrunched that they’re reduced to mere glittering blackness. “God...should’ve seen your face. You thought I was actually offended,” he crows. Then, he palms between his own thighs casually, feeling himself up, like he’s never even considered how big or not big he may be. Harry stares, dry-mouthed. “I’m gonna say it’s mostly average,” Louis concludes after a loaded, silent moment. “Though I’m more of a grower, if m’honest.” 

_You can show me,_ Harry thinks desperately, clutching his seatbelt in determined fists to keep himself from pitching forward into Louis’s lap to verify his dick size on his own. He’s just…god. Louis’s so fit, and Harry has been spending the entire day trying _not_ to think about his dick, and now that the dick in question is being openly _discussed_ , he can’t help thinking about it; the dam is broken, and every question he’s ever had about that particular part of Louis’s anatomy is flooding into his mind unbidden. Is it big? Is it not? Harry doesn't even care because if it’s big, it'll fill him up and choke him, and that sounds amazing, and if it’s _not_ big, then he can fit more of it _in_ his mouth at once, and _that_ sounds amazing, too. Is it thick? Does it curve to one side or the other? Is Louis cut or uncut, and if he’s uncut, how much of his cock-head pokes out when he's soft? Just a bit, enough for Harry to cover with the very tip of his tongue, or none at all, meaning Harry could actually lick up inside the pocket of skin, _fuck Louis_ , eat him out until he’s hard? 

Harry shivers. He must have been quiet for too long because Louis clears his throat and asks him lightly, “Are you disappointed or summat?” 

“What!? No!” is Harry’s immediate response, because truly it’s absurd to think that he could be disappointed in Louis’s prick, when surely, even if it’s only average in size, it’s probably as gorgeous as the rest of him. 

“Not disappointed, then…just shy,” Louis corrects, and, _no_ , that’s not right either. 

“M’not shy,” Harry tells him. And it’s true, he isn’t. At least not usually. He’s actually quite funny and talkative and charming around most people, except for Louis, apparently, who turns him into an absolute disaster. 

“Hmm,” Louis says, hands shuffling around the steering wheel, a lovely, restless motion. “What are you, then, Harry Styles? If you aren’t disappointed or shy or _hairless_ , seemingly, …,” he trails off, one hand falling away from the wheel gracefully so that he can fish around under the stereo for the pack of cigarettes wedged up there. 

_You have pretty fingers_ , Harry thinks before an internal alarm goes off. Louis. Cigarettes. _No!_

Harry reaches out lightning fast and snatches the box from Louis’s hand. “Stop!” Harry yells, clutching the pack to his chest defensively as Louis stares at him, brows arched and mouth hanging open, lovely and wet. God. Fuck. Harry wants to put something in it, but all that he has are cigarettes right now, and that’s the opposite of his job. 

“That was totally subconscious. You caught me, fuck,” Louis marvels, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Harry rolls down the window and chucks the box out, watches it skitter down the road and disappear, a moment of white against a grey horizon. It’s the first time in his entire life that he’s ever littered, and he feels guilty about it, but drastic times call for drastic measures. 

“That was, like, seven quid!” Louis scolds. 

“Sorry,” Harry winces, even though this is the whole point of their hanging out together. “No, no, s’fine...it’s better this way,” Louis sighs. “Give me your arm.” 

Harry does it without even remembering why he’s doing it, his mind still foggy and hot from the whole dick comparison conversation that he’ll never recover from. He's still half-imagining Louis’s allegedly average-sized grower and swallowing drool about it. One would think that Louis’s fast, fierce smack on the inside of his arm would sober him up, and it _would_ , if he were a normal person, but he apparently isn’t. So instead, when Louis hits him, he sort of gasps, breath catching in his throat and cock twitching, the head of it all wet and sticky from the precum he’s been leaking on and off since he left his fucking _house_ and this whole fiasco _started_. He forgets that he’s supposed to hit Louis back, instead just gritting his teeth and squeezing his thighs together like a fucking teenager. 

“Harry,” Louis hisses, waving his hand impatiently in the air. “You’re supposed to hit me _back_...the whole me-hitting-you part doesn’t actually help my craving at all.” 

“Oh, right,” Harry whimpers. He’s losing his mind, that’s the only explanation for what he does next. “Erm, you need to do it again, though. So I can, like…” 

“God,” Louis interrupts in exasperation, shaking his head as he reaches out and just smacks Harry in the shoulder, on the bicep, on the forearm. Three times in rapid succession, and Harry’s so fucking turned on that he should probably just take off his jacket and cover his lap before Louis can tell for sure what’s happening. “You’re…you’re so confusing. Here,” Louis finishes, holding out his arm. “Enough for you to work with?” 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles before he hits Louis back, feeling giddy and embarrassed all at once, self-conscious over how transparent he must be, but too flustered and, like, _aroused_ to do anything about it. Louis winces at the impact, then shakes his head. 

“Again,” he orders. “Shouldn’t have touched the box...I want one really badly now.” 

It bothers Harry to think of Louis wanting something that isn’t him, even if it’s an inanimate object, as absurd and unfair as that is. He pushes his tongue into his cheek as he deals the next smack, and it must be a good one because Louis shudders and makes a face, the same face one might make after taking a sip of cheap whiskey. “Thank you,” he says, sort of quietly, pulling into a driveway and braking. “And just in time...this is my house.” 

It’s begun to rain a bit, and Harry shivers as they step out into the dreary mist. He’s grateful for the chill, though; it takes the edge off his erection, which is a blessing because his trousers don’t really do much to hide anything.

He follows Louis up to the front door, squinting as it drizzles. “Am I going to meet your mum and all your sisters?” Harry asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Nah, they're all staying with me nan for the weekend, actually. This is why I had to get your help…it’s easier to stop when they’re around because there’s the guilt and the disapproval and whatnot. But when they aren’t here, and m’just house sitting? All I want to do is chain smoke...it’s terrible. I need you,” Louis explains. 

_I need you, too! What a coincidence!_ Harry thinks. Then he stops thinking entirely because Louis’s holding the door open for him like he’s a girl, and something about that makes his prick all excited and confused again. “After you,” Louis offers. “C’mon, I’ll show you my room.” 

Harry holds his breath and follows Louis up the stairs, hardly believing that any of this is real. 

—-

The first thing Louis does is lock the door behind them. 

Harry hardly notices, he's so busy drinking in all the details of Louis’s everyday life. The unmade bed with stained navy sheets that Harry desperately wants to rub his face into. School books and CDs all over the floor, shoved into the corner by a giant dirty laundry pile. A Manchester United flag, ticket stubs from shows, pictures of his family, posters with bands and footie players on them (much to Harry’s disappointment, Becks is the only one that he recognizes, and he wonders if he’s really Louis’s favourite, or if he just thinks that he’s fit...or if that last thought is merely projection because Harry’s sole interest in footie is the fact that all the men have nice legs). Harry squints at the pictures of Louis’s friends, trying to figure out if any of these lads could be ex-boyfriends, when Louis clears his throat, making him snap his head around. 

“Arm,” Louis orders, and his voice is low, dangerous, even. The raspy scrape of it makes Harry’s insides churn, and he moves in slow motion, holding his arm out so that Louis can hit him. But he doesn't hit him. Instead, he just wraps his fingers tightly around Harry’s wrist, right over the thunder of his pulse, and pulls him in so that he stumbles, so that he can feel the heat from his body, smell the ghost of cigarette smoke on his clothes. Harry’s dick goes from zero to five in three seconds flat, stomach dropping so quickly that it leaves him dizzy. “So,” Louis says, sliding his hand up Harry’s forearm and digging his thumb into him, into where the skin is still faintly stinging from so many sharp smacks. “You _are_ hung. I know because during the entire fucking car ride home, you were tenting your trousers.” 

And Harry…Harry sort of wants to die. The worst part is that the embarrassment of this highly embarrassing situation _should_ wilt the thickness that Louis’s so kindly pointing out, but instead, he just chubs up even _more_ , gets even _harder_. “I’m…god. M’so sorry,” he breathes, wishing that he had the power to pull away from Louis’s grip and _cover himself_. But he can’t; he’s seemingly magnetized, so here he stays. In Louis’s orbit, seeking his heat. 

“Don’t apologize,” Louis tells him softly, thumbing over Harry’s elbow ditch, almost _teasing_ , like he _wants_ Harry to get a full-scale, real-life erection in his fucking pants again. “Just…what is your deal? Are you trying…do you _want_ me to lose my fucking mind?” he murmurs, breath hot as it huffs out over Harry's lips.

Harry’s brain is cloudy; blood is roaring in his ears. He has no idea what’s going on, but he thinks that he might have stepped into a parallel universe the second he crossed over the threshold of Louis’s room, a parallel universe where _he_ somehow has the power in this situation, and Louis is at _his_ mercy. That’s the only explanation for this whole crazy exchange. He blinks very slowly, shaking his head as he gazes up at Louis and asks, “Wait… _what?_ What do you mean?” 

Louis lashes flutter with something like uncertainty, and he loosens his grip, fingers fluttering against the thunder of Harry's pulse. “Is this some teenage thing, or are you into me? Are you even gay?” Louis shoots back, spelling it out, voice slow and even. 

Well. 

Harry would lie, if he thought that was what Louis wanted to hear. But the unfathomable thing about all of this, more unfathomable than Louis coming to his house and picking him up and enlisting him to be his life coach in the first place, is that it feels like Louis would _rather_ hear that Harry _is_ into him. That the erection he’s been battling all day is because Louis’s ridiculously fit and _repeatedly smacking him_ , which he’s apparently into, and not just because Harry is sixteen and sexually frustrated. “I’m definitely gay,” he mumbles back. And then, even more quietly, so quietly that Louis has to hold his breath to hear it, “And I’m obviously into you.” 

Louis sighs, exhaling out a long, explosive breath before _letting Harry go_ in favour of collapsing onto his own bed, legs hooked over the side loosely. “Thank god...I was getting worried,” he admits. His hoodie and shirt have ridden up a bit, exposing a pale strip of skin, and Harry desperately wants to get on his knees and press his face into Louis’s stomach, open his mouth, and get his teeth into the soft flesh dusted in golden hair, a trail of it glinting under his navel. _Fuck_. Harry can imagine how it would feel under his tongue, he wants it so badly, and maybe he's going insane, but he _thinks_ he might be able to get away with it. He thinks…he thinks Louis might be _coming on to him_. 

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), he’s too gutted from Louis _leaving_ him there with his semi that he can’t really do anything but stand stunned and blinking and cold as Louis props himself up on his elbows and watches him from his bed. “So,” he says idly, one foot swinging as he combs his finger through his fringe, acting _coy_ , which is pretty much lethal. Louis’s hot without even trying, so now that there’s actual _flirtation_ , he’s actually making an effort, Harry’s in danger of catching fire and floating away. “Are you gonna show me?” 

Harry’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he very nearly gags on his own saliva. “Am I gonna show you...what?” he asks. 

“Your big prick, Harry,” Louis sighs, pointing to his crotch. “That.” 

“Oh,” Harry squeaks, hands flying to cover himself, because that’s just what one _does_ when another lad calls him out on his inopportune erection. If this is inopportune at all, Harry isn't sure anymore. He has no fucking idea what this means or what's going on, just that Louis Tomlinson is sitting on the edge of his own bed and asking _Harry_ to _show him his cock_. “You…want to see it?” he asks, incredulously, because really this whole thing is just….hard to believe. 

He half-expects Louis to roll his eyes or give him a hard time, but instead he just bites his lip, gaze skittering desperately all over Harry’s body, sizing him up and down like he doesn’t know what he wants to see first. Eventually, his gaze returns to his cock, though, which flexes predictably under the scrutiny. “Obviously,” Louis says lightly, hand sliding up his own thigh, fingers drumming at the delicious looking bulge there. He's not hard, not totally, but he isn’t fully soft, either, and the fact that Harry could make _anything_ like that happen at all seems mad. “Been thinking about it all day. Wondering what you look like.” 

Harry shivers, wishing he knew a single thing about stripping. He takes his clothes off literally every day, sometimes more than once, but never in his life has he thought about how one might make that task look _sexy_. Louis looks so _impatient_ , though, and Harry just wants to be a Good Boy for him, to give him whatever he wants, so he supposes he can skip the sexiness in favour of speed. He takes a deep breath and unbuttons his trousers before unzipping his flies with clumsy fingers, breath held. “Okay,” he whispers, to himself as much as to Louis, hands visibly trembling and cheeks so hot they almost hurt. 

“Oh, god,” Louis breathes as Harry rolls his trousers down his thighs, just enough to reveal his cock, which is straining against his hunter-green briefs, the shape of it totally visible, bowed toward his stomach. “It’s big...knew it was big.” 

“Is it good?” Harry asks desperately, sounding so fucking pitiful that he wishes he could take it back. It’s obviously good that his cock is big, right? That’s a thing people are generally impressed by, he thinks, but Louis’s so casual and nonchalant about this whole thing that Harry feels like he's missing something, like its a joke in disguise, and any second Louis’s going to mock him, say that he's kidding, ask him why he has his hard willy out. 

Instead, Louis inhales raggedly, shaking his head, “Better than good...fucking gorgeous. Take it out of your pants, yeah?” 

And, _Jesus_ , fuck, this is happening. Harry’s moving on autopilot, unable to think about much else save for the fact that he can see Louis’s cock thickening up in his tight red chinos, under the slow, aimless movement of his hand. Louis’s rubbing himself through his clothes, tracing up the seam on his thigh as he stares at Harry, eyes wide and cheeks stained a hectic pink. It’s….it’s fucking crazy to see his body change, to actually track his reactions in real time, and to _know_ that it’s happening because of Harry. That the mere sight of his now mostly hard cock is enough to turn Louis Tomlinson on. 

He frees himself from his briefs before pulling them down over his arse, and then he closes his fingers around the length of his cock, totally unable to keep from pulling on himself a bit, all hot and itchy under Louis’s hungry gaze. Louis whimpers, tongue smoothing over his lips in a pink flash. “Let me do that instead,” he says, reaching out and making a grabbing motion in the air. “I mean, if you want me to. Don’t have to do anything you don't want, but if you _do want_ …god. Harry,” he chokes out, cutting himself off. “I’ll make you feel good.”

Harry stumbles to the bed in slow motion. He's standing and Louis’s sitting, which means Louis’s nearly eye level with his dick, which is bobbing in the air pathetically, the crown already wet and shiny as precum sluices out in beads. “I want you to,” he manages to stutter. “Is that…you want that, too?” After all, he did say _let me do that_ , like he was extending a favour, which is somehow different than expressing _want_. Harry can tell he wants it, but his disbelief is still eating him up, making him doubt the actual fibre of _reality_ right now, this is all so crazy. He needs to hear Louis actually say it.

Louis shakes his head, like he’s battling disbelief, too. “Harry Styles,” he chastises, and the playful lilt to it makes Harry’s stomach flip over excitedly. “Among other things, I want to touch your cock, yes,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Harry should know this. 

“What other things?” Harry asks, standing just out of reach because he’s afraid that if Louis touches him and _then_ tells him, he might not be able to hold on and could just shoot his entire load right there, all over Louis’s sheets. 

Louis fixes his fringe, a soft, delicate motion that Harry wants to immortalize forever on the backs of his eyelids, so that he can replay it when he hasn’t see something beautiful for awhile. “Whatever you’ll let me do, really,” Louis explains, looking up at Harry through his lashes, soft and flirty and impossibly hot. “I’d love to choke on it...see how much of you I could fit down my throat. But most of all, I’d like to put you on your back and ride it.” 

Harry’s very, very glad it’s his own hand that’s clamped around the base of his cock right now and not Louis’s because surely he would have come from those words alone, spilling all over Louis’s pretty fist and making a fucking fool of himself. “Oh, god,” he whines, squeezing himself reflexively, precum actually spilling over the head of his cock, a single drop sliding down the flexing length. He's so _wet_ that it’s embarrassing, wet like a girl, and he feels like he can’t feign coolness or nonchalance or experience one bit because he’s naked and dripping, and Louis’s still _staring at him_ , fully clothed and half-reclined on the edge of the bed. “You’d let me fuck you?” Harry asks, voice trembling along with the rest of him. 

“I’d pay you to fuck me,” Louis corrects, smirking. “But I'm hoping you’ll do it in exchange for keeping me from smoking.” 

Harry will do it for free, obviously. In fact, _Harry_ is the one who should be paying. He’d pay Louis just to snog him for a minute or two, so the fact that _Louis_ is saying _his_ overeager, virgin cock is worth paying for is honestly too good to be true. He’s not gonna sit here and question it, though, he’s gonna take advantage of this parallel universe that he somehow fell into and offer whatever Louis’s willing to take. “Yeah,” he says, working his fist over his cock in slow, clumsy jerks. “I’ll do it.” _I’ll do it_ , instead of, _I'm absolutely gagging for it_. Harry’s pretty impressed with his feigned nonchalance. 

But any nonchalance, feigned or otherwise, evaporates the second that Louis reaches for him, wrapping his pretty fingers around Harry’s shaft, batting his hand away so that he can have it all to himself. His eyes are fixed unwaveringly to Harry’s cock-head, and that alone is fucking _flaying_ Harry alive, splitting him down the middle with how unbelievably scorching hot it is to have Louis _staring_ at him, so unabashed and greedy and cutting. “Jesus,” Louis whispers, dabbing his index finger into the slick of precum bubbling out of Harry’s slit. “You fill up my whole fucking hand. So good...gonna feel so good inside of me.” 

Harry nearly collapses, knees suddenly very weak and wobbly, balance thrown off because he can’t keep track of the rest of his body when his cock is finally, finally, _finally_ being touched by another boy. And not just any boy, _Louis Fucking Tomlinson_. Harry’s cock is in Louis Tomlinson’s elegant hand, which is small, making Harry feel and look even _bigger_. It’s obscene, really, and he flexes in Louis’s gentle grip, hands flying to Louis’s shoulders to brace himself lest he fall over. “Oh, god,” he moans as Louis tugs on him, palm hot and teasing, like he’s not trying to get Harry off or anything but instead just wants to feel the smooth shift of their skin together. “That feels amazing.” 

“I’m not even doing anything,” Louis says, sounding distracted. “Jesus, you’re huge, so thick...and pretty, god. Wanna just lay you out and lick you all over, you’re perfect,” he rambles, and Harry’s abdominals clench in overwhelm. Louis can’t…he can’t _say_ those things and expect Harry to last long enough to fuck him. Harry has never fucked a person before, and he's already so overwhelmed that he can hardly breathe. His arms shake as he holds himself up, and he watches with bleary eyes as Louis lets go of his cock only to lick his hand, tongue pink and wide as he gets his palm all sloppy. “Mgph, taste good, too,” Louis hisses and _fuck._ It’s the hottest thing that Harry’s ever heard or seen, and there’s no way, _none at all_ , that he's gonna be able to hold onto his orgasm long enough to _actually_ have Louis’s mouth, let alone his arse. 

He doesn’t want to be a disappointment or anything, but that’s just the truth. He’s sixteen, and he wasn’t planning on his first time ever involving the subject of all his fantasies promising to ride his cock into the mattress. He’s wholly unprepared. “Louis,” he wheezes, eyes shut tightly as Louis’s slick fingers wrap around him, warm and perfect. “M’not gonna…I’m, like, super close already, sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, that’s fucking hot,” Louis assures him, using his free hand to grip Harry’s hip bruisingly tight, anchoring him. “S’fine....I wanna bring you off like this, wanna watch you come before we do anything else anyway.” 

Harry groans loudly, mind whiting out in pure, scalding pleasure as he fucks Louis’s spit-wet fist, everything about it absolutely maddening, the pressure, the way Louis smells, the flex of his shoulders under Harry’s vice-tight grip. Harry’s relieved by something that Louis said, but he can’t remember what it was because he can't keep anything in his head right now, not when Louis’s pulling at him like this, breath coming out in a sharp gasp every time Harry twitches. Harry opens his mouth against Louis’s forehead at some point, desperately wanting to taste sweat, to _kiss_ if Louis will let him, but he’s scared to ask because he isn’t really sure if this is, like, some gay version of tossing off with a mate, where you touch each other but don’t act soppy or whatever. Still, he can't help himself, his tongue lolling out without his consent, flicking over the fine perspiration beaded at Louis’s hairline. 

Thank god Louis doesn’t act like it’s weird or anything. Instead, he whimpers, tilts his head back, and asks, “S’okay if I kiss you?” every word coming out soft and frayed on an exhale. 

Harry can’t speak, he can only nod for a split-second before he’s pitching forward, pressing his lips to Louis’s just like he’s imagined doing countless times before, usually in the moments when he can’t sleep and he's especially lonely, curled around his pillow at night, desperately wishing for things he doesn’t yet have. 

But right now, right here, _miraculously_ , they’re his. Louis’s soft, delicious huff of breath as he tilts into it, tasting faintly of smoke, Louis’s rasp of stubble against Harry’s chin, Louis’s tongue smoothing over Harry’s lower lip before pushing inside his mouth, slick and filthy. 

Everything is molten and hot and wet, and as Harry groans messily and sucks Louis’s tongue in rough, greedy pulses, his whole body locks up. Before he can even attempt to stave himself off, he’s coming.

Louis jerks him through it, clumsy and frantic, whining a high, animal sound into Harry’s gasping mouth as ribbons of come land on his lap, his shirt. Harry would feel guilty if Louis wasn't making it so fucking clear that he _wants_ this, _wants_ Harry’s come all over him like a baptism. “God, fuck, look at you,” he marvels as he rips away from the kiss, bowing his head so that he can watch Harry’s cock flex and twitch its way through the aftershocks, come still pulsing out because Harry’s been dealing with unresolved erections all fucking day, and his load is huge as a result. “So hot...want all this inside me.” 

Harry whines low and long in his throat, trembly all over as he sags against Louis, face buried in the ditch between his neck and shoulder, breathing in his smoke and detergent and sweat-smell, the best fucking thing that he’s ever had in his lungs. “That was so fast, m’sorry,” he mumbles, lips moving against the insistent thud of Louis’s pulse. “I’ve never…I’ve never done this before,” he admits then, the truth rushing out of him even though he doesn’t mean for it to, was sort of planning on winging this, pretending that he knew what he was doing, when in reality he has only _dreamed_ of kissing boys. “Sorry,” he says again, and Louis silences him, smoothing a gentle, sticky hand up the side of his shirt, over the notches of his ribs. 

“Stop saying sorry,” Louis reprimands him lightly, voice a rumble against Harry's open, panting mouth. “You’re literally perfect. Like, exactly my type. Happy to just hang out with you, let alone touch your giant cock, let alone make you come and snog you and…fuck. Am I, like, moving too fast? Are you freaked out?” 

Harry shakes his head. He was probably born for this. Or at least he feels like he’s been ready for Real Sex for _years_ but never had the opportunity because that's how it is when you’re a gay teenager living in a small, boring village miles and miles from a proper city. “No, s’just the right speed. It’s really good. M’just, like…sorta shocked you want to at all, like, with me.” 

Louis scoffs and shakes his head, like Harry’s mad. “Exactly, _exactly_ my type, Harry. M’dead serious,” Louis reiterates, and Harry shivers, stomach flipping over. He literally _just_ came, but his cock is already stirring again. 

“What, skinny and hung?” Harry asks, finally stable enough that he can stand up again, eyes blinky and full of tears because that was likely the best, fastest, most intense orgasm of his life, and it happened in _Louis Tomlinson’s room_ , and it’s a lot to take in, really. 

Louis laughs, high and breathy, his cheeks so flushed, eyes sparkly blue, mouth red from kissing, and, _god_ , Harry could just stare at him all day. “Well, yes, but mostly, like…kind and funny and unpretentious and sweet. And you have the most gorgeous smile. And you smell amazing. And you don't smoke.” 

Harry has to slump again because this, too, is a lot to take in. He disentangles himself from Louis’s legs and staggers to the edge of the bed where he sits, all shaky and confused and more than half-sure that he’s dreaming. Louis seems unperturbed by him moving, in fact, he just stands up, strips off his shirt, and turns it right side out again so that he can _suck the mess of Harry’s come out of the fabric_ , eyes closed and blissed out, lashes delicately sweeping the cut of his cheekbone. _Jesus fucking Christ_. Harry’s soft dick twitches pitifully, lip worried between his teeth as Louis tosses the shirt away, not apologizing for or even acknowledging the fact that he’s so infernally hot, it’s nearly impossible to stand. “Off,” Louis says, gesturing impatiently to Harry’s shirt. “Wanna see you.” 

Harry struggles out of his T-shirt in slow motion, the whole maneuver ridiculously complicated and elusive, so much so that it makes him dizzy. He finally gets out of the neck, newly breathless and hair a wreck. He hasn't even properly recovered, but Louis’s already moving in for the kill, taking one of Harry's shoulders in each hand and pushing him back onto the bed, crawling up into his lap, and bracketing his hips with his knees, very shirtless and very warm and absolutely _beyond_ beautiful as he leans down over Harry, spreads him out, and fixes his mouth to his neck and _sucks_ like something from a goddamned porno. Harry writhes under the biting pressure, wondering how Louis’s mouth could be so sharp and so soft all at once, the heat and the slick of him so maddening that he has to cry out. 

“Mmm,” Louis groans, pulling back to kiss the mark that he’s made. “Think you can get hard for me again?” he murmurs, breath licking against the shell of Harry's ear, voice soft and high and teasing. 

_Done_. Harry nods, grinding up against Louis boldly, _showing_ him. “Yeah, I think so,” he lies because, like…he _knows_ so. He's already halfway there. He couldn’t be anything _other_ than hard when shirtless Louis Tomlinson is kissing all over his neck and tickling him with his hair, smoothing his hand down the flushed curve of his cheek before drawing him up into a fierce, burning kiss.

They snog for a minute or ten or, like, three days, Harry doesn’t know because he can’t keep track of time when Louis’s looming above him, fucking his mouth open on his tongue, biting his lips, kissing him so fucking hard and thorough that Harry’s vision whites out. 

“God...could just kiss you forever, you’re so, so fucking fit,” Louis breathes into his mouth as he pulls away, sounding _moved_ , as stricken as Harry feels, and _how_ , how the _fuck_ did this even happen? How did Harry get so absurdly lucky that he, awkward and skinny with his weird love handles and soft belly and boyish dimples and lips that are embarrassingly girly, _magically_ end up being _Louis Tomlinson’s_ type?? Harry for sure thought he would have to get at least three years older and three inches taller or broader before _any_ guy found him even remotely attractive, let alone a guy like _Louis_ , who looks like a fucking model or one of those cam boys you actually have to pay for. Louis, who’s currently mouthing and nipping all over his collarbones, rutting his hard cock against Harry’s stomach, so clearly and inarguably turned on for some reason that Harry can’t even really give weight to his self-doubt. 

“So you said this was your first time,” Louis reminds him, tongue flicking out over the corner of his mouth, eyes wide and blown black with pupil. “Did you mean, like…ever? Have you done anything at all?” 

Before today, Harry has only kissed his hand and his pillow and wanked to a massive arsenal of gay porn. Since he doesn't think he can really count any of that as experience, he reluctantly confesses, “Erm, no? Is that alright?” 

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs, combing his fingers through Harry’s hair, nails razing over his scalp as he turns his head left and right, just grinding the back of his skull into his pillow, looking for all the world like he thinks Harry looks pretty here, spread out on his sheets. Harry certainly _feels_ pretty, anyway. “That’s okay. Just tell me if you wanna stop, or if anything’s too much, yeah?” 

Nothing is ever going to be too much, or if it is, Harry still wants it, wants to drown in the excess. Louis’s so unbelievably fit, skin the slightest bit dewy with perspiration between his lean pecs where there’s a fine dusting of chest hair. Harry reaches out, hand shaking, and threads his fingers through it, so fucking astounded that a boy this gorgeous is kissing him, grinding on him, looking at him like he wants to eat him alive. “No, s’not too much, don’t wanna stop,” he assures Louis, his hand stopping to tremble over Louis’s heart, which is palpably racing. “This is the best day of m’life.” 

Louis grins brilliantly then, teeth a lovely, lickable flash of white that makes Harry dizzy. “Gonna get better. You still want me to ride you? Because I really, really, _really_ want to,” he tells him, reaching down and cupping Harry’s sensitive cock, palming over it and biting his lip, like the feel of Harry in his hand is enough to make his teeth clench tightly in awe. “Fuck, want it so badly,” he groans. 

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry whimpers, pushing himself up into the heat of Louis’s hand. “Want it so badly, too. S’just...I don’t know how to do it right or anything.” _You’ll have to show me_ rests unspoken between them, suspended in the hot, humid mess of their shared exhalations. 

Louis sits back, deliberately rubbing his bum (the perfect, round, delectable bum that Harry has fantasized about grabbing and pulling apart or burying his face in too many times to count) against Harry’s erection. The drag of skin against fabric hurts a little, but Harry likes it, gasping as he thrusts messily in the air, trying to create more friction. “I’ll take care of you,” Louis promises, popping the button on his chinos, and, _fuck_ , this is really happening, Harry’s about to see another boy _hard_ for him, wanting, thick and ready to fuck. “All you have to do is just lie back and let me, okay?” Louis reassures him. 

“Okay,” Harry breathes, tentatively resting his hands on Louis’s thick, toned thighs for a moment, squeezing experimentally before he has to let go so that Louis can properly clamber out of his trousers. “I can do that.” Then, because he wants to know as much as he sort of _doesn’t_ want to know, he blurts, “Have you…have _you_ done this before?” 

He’s expecting an incredulous, _of course, Harold, I’ve ridden every skinny, hung boy’s cock in Yorkshire, who do you think I am?!_ , so his heart flutters when Louis sighs and admits, “Unfortunately, no, I haven’t had the pleasure of _actually_ getting dicked yet. Which would be a shame if yours wasn't so perfect. But it is, so it’s, like, worth the wait, I suppose.” 

Harry manages to relax a little, settling back and taking a deep breath, feeling more certain of himself and his uncertainty because this is Louis’s _first time, too_. Or at least his first time actually being fucked, which means that he has nothing to compare Harry to, there isn’t a more experienced cock that he’s ridden that Harry could fail to match. He’s sort of shocked, though, because how the hell has someone as handsome and funny and sexy as Louis not gotten fucked exactly the way he likes it yet? He feels a determined little clench in his gut, a resolution to be the very best, a Good Boy. God, he wants to be Louis’s good boy so badly, he wants to last and last so that Louis can fuck himself raw on his length until he’s satisfied. He wants to be used, he wants to be _perfect_. Then the reality of what they’re about to do strikes him, the _mechanics_ of the whole thing, and he has to ask, “How…aren’t you worried it’s gonna hurt? Wouldn’t it be better to have, like, someone smaller your first time?” 

Louis laughs, kicking his way out of his chinos before reaching into a tattered red bookbag that’s hanging from the right bedpost. The motion brings his crotch close to Harry’s face, and he can make out the delicious outline of Louis’s cock through the threadbare black cotton, can _smell_ him, all spicy and risky and turned on, and it makes his fucking mouth water. Louis rummages in the bookbag for a moment before he pulls out a huge and mortifyingly realistic dildo that wobbles obscenely in his hand. It’s at least as big as Harry, whose fucking mouth is hanging open as Louis taps his cheek with the rubber shaft. “I’ll be fine...I fuck myself with this all the time. I have plugs, too.” He says it so casually that it _shouldn’t_ make Harry drip all over himself, but the idea of Louis’s gorgeous arse stuffed full like that, his hole clenching and fluttering around a plug, is enough to make Harry’s cock flex and blurt precum onto his stomach. 

“Oh,” is his brilliant response. He swallows thickly, thoroughly overwhelmed by Louis touching him with something that’s been _inside his arse_ on a semi-regular basis. He feels like he’s been blessed. Louis reaches back into the bookbag, trading the dildo for a bottle of lube and a condom, and, god, oh, _god_ , this is happening. Harry’s going to fuck Louis Tomlinson. 

Louis dumps the supplies onto his bed and struggles out of his Topman briefs, every motion practiced and smooth and graceful in a way that Harry can only _dream_ of being. He feels lucky just to watch Louis _move_ , let alone to see the pale, peachy curve of his arse exposed as he strips. 

Harry squirms in overwhelm as Louis settles back down on top of him, this time totally and gloriously naked. Their skin is touching, and that alone is maddening, but then there’s Louis’s _cock_ , which isn’t very big or anything but is absurdly, unfairly pretty, caramel in colour save for the head, which is flushed a deep red, everything all smooth and hot and shiny from his precum. He looks like a porn star, and Harry wants to spend an eternity just, like, worshipping that cock. With his mouth, his hands, his whole entire body. He doesn't know how to adequately express even a fraction of this, though, so instead, he reaches for it with a tremulous hand, brushes his knuckles up the shaft, and says, “Wow.” 

“S’not bad, not _small_ or anything, but it’s not like yours. God,” Louis murmurs, as if he's just remembered that he gets to have all of it inside of him in a moment. He grabs the lube and gets up on his knees, uncapping the bottle with his thumb before squirting a generous amount over the fingers of his right hand. And then with the ease and confidence of someone who has done this many, many times before, he twists at the waist and reaches around his back, between his cheeks, to touch. 

Harry's stomach clenches, and he brings his thighs reflexively together, moved by the image of Louis so unabashedly fingering himself open. There’s a wet, dirty, _snick snick_ sound, and Louis’s eyes flutter shut in either concentration or pleasure, but everything else happening back there is a mystery, and Harry wants to be enlightened. “I can do that,” he says, voice ragged and too low. 

Louis looks at him through slit lashes, mouth red and flushed and hanging open as he humps his hand, backing himself up onto his fingers. “Not as good as I can, though. Don't worry about it,” he tells him, pretty cock flexing against his belly, so hot that Harry’s breath catches. “Just wanna get m’self stretched enough to take you.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Harry says impatiently, chest tight at the idea that Louis thinks he can touch himself better than Harry can, which is wrong because Harry knows that he's _meant_ to touch Louis, that he would be _so_ good at it, if he let him. “But I wanna learn. I also just, like…dunno, wanna feel you, wanna know what you feel like,” he whines, just imagining the heat, the slickness, the tight muscles fluttering under his fingertips. His legs spasm involuntarily as he thinks about it. 

Louis smiles, bicep flexing as he fingers himself rhythmically. “Yeah? You wanna touch my bumhole just because? Sounds gay,” he teases. 

Harry, who _is_ gay, remains undeterred, “Yeah, I just wanna touch it. Please?” he begs, hands creeping up Louis’s thighs, one sliding to the smooth inner plane where Louis’s hot and humid and sweat-damp. “Sorry if that's weird.” 

“It’s nice,” Louis murmurs, letting his hand fall away, and _god,_ his fingers are all lube-shiny, and it’s so fucking hot that Harry wants to cry. Louis leans forward on all fours above Harry, his body blocking out the light, leaving nothing but the pale gold of his skin, rosy and flushed all the way down his sternum, so fucking beautiful that Harry has forgotten there's a world outside this room. “You can touch if you want. Go ahead.” 

Louis’s being very patient, and Harry’s very grateful for that, so he tries to still the embarrassing tremble of his too-eager hand as he reaches around to cup Louis’s bum in his palms, grabbing in greedy fistfuls, totally incapable of being chill or cool about it at all. Louis gasps as Harry inches his fingers into the slick crack of his arse, and Harry holds his breath in absolute awe as he finally, finally brushes his fingers over Louis’s soft, slippery hole. 

And, _god_ , it’s so good, so tight and delicious as it pulses reflexively under his touch, and maybe Harry’s weird, but the first fucking thing he thinks is, _god, I wish I could lick it_ , mouth flooding with saliva at the mere thought, _drooling_ as he prods around it, just feeling Louis experimentally, not even meaning to when the tip of his index finger slides easily in past the ring of muscle. 

Louis sighs, lashes all spiky with overwhelmed, unshed tears as he blinks over Harry. “What does it feel like?” 

“Absolutely amazing,” Harry whispers, voice cutting out into an involuntary whine as he pushes his finger in deeper, astounded by how _easy_ it is, how Louis just _sucks him up_ , like he wants any part of Harry that he can get inside him _so_ badly. “You’re so hot up there...can feel your heartbeat.” 

“You can go deeper. Fuck, even your fingers are bigger than mine, more of a stretch,” Louis grits out, bracing his hands on the headboard and tilting his hips back so that he’s essentially sitting down on Harry’s finger, breaching himself, stuffing himself. “Feels good.” 

Good is an understatement, Louis’s arsehole feels like _heaven_ , just on Harry’s _finger_ ; he can hardly even imagine what that tight, slippery heat is gonna feel like on his cock. “How do I get you ready?” he asks, pumping in and out, loving the smooth clench of his walls, the way Louis grips him so tightly at the same time as he’s opening up so easily. 

Louis laughs breathlessly, and Harry feels that from the inside, too. “Harry, I _am_ ready. I’m so ready for you.” 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, amazed, not well-versed enough in the way that these things work to know what constitutes an arse as ready to be properly fucked or not. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, wincing as he reaches around to pull Harry’s fingers out before shoving his own fingers back in again, wrist moving as he fucks himself open, gasping as he does it. “Put that condom on,” he orders, nodding his chin toward the little foil packet in the sheets. 

“Do we need it? M’not gonna knock you up, and I don’t…I haven’t been with anyone,” Harry reminds him, cheeks burning. 

Louis shakes his head, breath visibly catching, cock flexing without even being touched. “Jesus Christ, Harry,” he groans, like Harry just asked for something incredibly hot. “We don’t…we don’t need it, not necessarily, but it makes the slide easier. And it’s less messy.” 

Harry isn’t sure if that means shit or come, but he doesn't care; he wants all of Louis, even his dirty, secret parts, his mess. But this is both of their first times and he’s sort of lost, so he’ll take direction where Louis gives it. He tears the rubber open and slides it down his cock, which is fat and leaking and oversensitive where it’s been lying neglected on his stomach. “Okay, but, like, if you wanted to...sometime...I would. I don’t care about the messy part.” 

Louis makes a strangled, cut-off sound before he takes a few staggering breaths. “I’d literally…fuck. I’d die to feel you come inside me, to have that big load... _god._ Yeah. Next time,” Louis slurs, hair sweaty and messy as he pushes it out of his eyes. “M’too close to fuck around with that right now.”

 _Next time._ Harry wants to _cheer_. This is all so much, so intense, his stomach roiling with heat as he watches Louis push another finger in, panting. 

God, Harry loves knowing that Louis’s close, loves knowing that he’s made him breathless like this, sweat-shiny like this. He gasps as Louis grabs him, slicking his cock up with so much lube that it drips down into his pubic hair, everything so messy and wet as Louis’s hand works him over. “You ready?” Louis asks, shuffling up to straddle Harry’s cock, the heat of his body an infernal, wavering thing above him, so close but not close enough. 

“Please, please, please,” is all Harry can say, and then Louis’s lowering himself, quads flickering as he guides Harry’s cock up into his slick, hot crack. 

He tries a few times to line it up just right, bearing down and holding Harry where he wants him, the crown of his cock nudging up against Louis’s hole without actually pushing in. Fuck, it feels unbelievably good, even _this_ , and they aren’t even fucking yet, he’s not even inside. This is just his cock pushing messily between Louis’s slick cheeks as he moves around, tongue pushed between his teeth as he adjusts himself. “How can I help?” Harry asks, wanting to be good for Louis, who smiles down at him, shaking his head. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, making Harry’s stomach flip over. “You don’t have to do anything...just lie there.” 

Harry wills himself to stillness, trying hard not to lift his hips and thrust against Louis’s arse. It seems impossible, really, his cock too blunt and too big to properly breach Louis’s hole, so when it _actually happens_ , he gasps, locking up at the unbelievable heat suddenly enveloping him. Louis whines, shifting his weight and tilting his hips a little to get the angle right, and then he slowly, slowly lowers himself in increments, mouth hanging open at the stretch. “Oh, my god,” Harry whispers, amazed as Louis sinks down, everything so tight and hot and slick that he’s seeing stars. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Louis whimpers, voice high and breathy, head tilted back to expose the lovely ripple of his throat. He swallows noisily, sweat shining on his chest, muscles in his stomach twitching involuntarily as he rocks his hips a little, creating friction on Harry’s cock-head that’s so unbearably good that he makes a sound. “God, Harry, your cock,” he groans, “So good...better than I ever imagined.” 

Harry wonders if Louis’s speaking generally, or if he imagined Harry’s cock _specifically_ , if he’s thought about this before, curious about what it might be like. Nothing seems out of the realm of possibility, given everything that’s happened today, so Harry lets himself wonder, desperately fisting in Louis’s sheets to distract himself from the nearly unbearable heat of Louis’s body. He wants to touch Louis, but he also wants to _last_ , and he isn’t sure that he do both, that he can touch him and not shoot off prematurely, so sheets it is. 

“Are you doing okay?” Louis asks breathlessly, spreading one hand on Harry’s stomach, the other on his chest, pushing him into the mattress. “You look like you’re dying.” 

“I’m fine,” Harry rasps. “Just...you feel so fucking good. It’s a lot.” 

“ _You_ feel so good...perfect...so thick in me,” Louis babbles, his cock leaking all over itself, thick and pulsing and delicious looking. “And you aren’t even deep yet. Just have the tip in me, basically.”

_There’s more?! _Harry feels like whining, head lolling all over Louis’s pillow. “You’re teasing me?”__

__“And myself,” Louis shrugs, sliding down a bit, legs trembling. “I wanna last, too.”_ _

__They remain like this for a few moments, joined but only just, and after Harry gets his breath, he loosens his grip enough to spread a hand up Louis’s thigh, feeling the clench and gather of muscle under his palm. Then it slackens, and Louis lowers himself the remaining length of Harry’s cock in a single, fluid motion, impaling himself so that his bum rests on Harry’s thighs._ _

__Harry’s _entire cock_ is _inside Louis’s arse_ , and he’s never felt anything so fucking unbelievable. “Oh, _god_ , fuck,” Louis moans, rocking his hips back and forth, cheeks wet with sweat, maybe tears. Regardless, he’s glowing, _glittering_ , even, struggling to catch his breath now that he has _all_ of Harry buried inside. “You’re huge...so fucking good, fill me so good, baby, god,” he purrs, rubbing his hands all over Harry’s chest, leaving pink marks in his wake. Harry’s still reeling from getting called _baby_ , amazed that he didn't lose it just from that, when Louis pinches one of his nipples _hard_ , the pain zinging through him in a nauseating wave. “Hey,” Louis warns, getting his nails in Harry’s skin. “Don’t come...not yet.”_ _

__Harry isn’t sure how to tell Louis that pain won’t exactly wilt his erection, in fact, it might push him over the edge, if Louis keeps it up. “I won’t, I won’t,” he whines, pushing himself up into the splay of Louis’s hands, greedy for the pressure, the touch. “I’m okay.”_ _

__“Good,” Louis grunts, lifting up and pushing back down, hole clenching desperately around Harry’s shaft with each motion. “Best thing I ever felt,” he murmurs, arching his back and gasping at the new angle, mouth wide and wet and very nearly drooling as he fucks himself on Harry like he's a toy._ _

__Harry’s just _staring_ , drinking in the sight of this incredibly fit boy riding him, his hair a wreck, spots of colour on his cheeks, his arms all tense and veiny as he holds his weight up using Harry’s body. Then, between those arms, Harry gets to catch glances of his _cock_ , his perfect fucking cock, red and flexing, precum bubbling up from the slit. “I wanna touch you,” he slurs, fumbling over Louis’s thigh, thumb digging in hungrily. “Can I?” _ _

__“Yeah,” Louis whines as he bears down, “Jerk me off while I ride you...m’close, I’ll come all over your stomach, your pretty skin, _god_ , Harry, wanna cover you in it.” _ _

___Fuck_. Harry finally gets his fist around another boy’s cock for the first time, and all he can hear is static and blood pounding in his ears, a revelation against his palm. Louis’s so hot that he burns, soft and hard all at once, the shift of skin over ridged heat, and it’s familiar, of course, but also somehow _different_ in ways that he can’t identify. Just _better_ , more raw, more real. He lets out a messy sob, his own cock flexing and twitching at the feel of Louis’s in his hand. “Fuck,” is all he can say, heart in his throat choking him silent as he touches and touches, one hand curled around Louis’s cock, the other spread wide and clutching at his thigh. _ _

__It’s all too much. The high-pitched mewling sounds that Louis’s making, the way that he keeps fixing his sweat-damp fringe as it falls in his eyes, the delicate curve of his wrist, the filthy dip to his lower back, the tight clutch of his hole, the burn of his cock. It’s unbearable, and Harry’s sixteen, and he's held on this long, but he can't hold on any longer. His balls tighten up in warning, and he manages to wheeze, “M’gonna…gonna come if I keep touching you, m’sorry.”_ _

__Louis’s eyes get wide, so blue that they're impossible, and he bites his lip before sitting back and batting Harry’s hands away from his dick. “Then _don’t_ touch me,” he scolds, but Harry can hardly listen, and he _wants_ to touch, is so desperate to have Louis back in his fist that he’s reaching for it again. “Stop,” Louis says firmly, pinning Harry’s hands at his side and putting his weight into it. “M’almost there, just hold on a little longer for me, yeah? Harry?” _ _

__Harry nods rapidly, throat stuck, stomach plummeting. God, he _likes_ being held down and told what to do, he _likes_ the way that Louis’s fingernails are biting into his wrists, cutting off his circulation so that his hands tingle a little. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I can hold on.” _ _

__“Good boy,” Louis pants, back arched deep and slutty as he rides Harry in earnest now, breath spilling out of him in desperate, uneven huffs, throat flushed all the way down his heaving chest. “God, you have me so _full_ , hurts so good, just can’t… _fuck_ , can’t get enough of your cock, s’perfect,” he babbles between high, breathy sounds, and, _god_ , Harry might not survive the sweet rasp of his voice, might not be able to hold on like he promised. _Be good, be good, you’re his Good Boy, prove it_ , he tells himself, gritting his teeth and lifting his hips in shallow thrusts so that he’s following Louis, making the friction less scalding. _ _

__Finally, when he’s sure that he can't hold on for a second longer, his hands are positively _numb_ , and all he can hear are Louis’s rhythmic yelps on each downstroke, Louis lets him go. “Okay, touch my cock,” he orders, and Harry _keens_ , he's so grateful, his voice coming out in a howl that’s almost unrecognizable. One of his hands flies to Louis’s cock, the other spreads wide and greedy over his chest, and then he feels it: Louis’s arsehole madly spasming around him, tightening so rapidly that it’s like being kneaded, like being milked. _No one_ could withstand such a thing, let alone someone who’s been through what Harry’s been through, so as his vision whites out again as he throws his head back, he comes. Pulse after pulse of it, even though he already shot a load earlier today, filling up the condom while Louis spills over his hand, white and burning and glorious as Harry forces his tear-bleary eyes open so that he can _watch_ Louis paint him in ribbons. _ _

__

__It’s like _church_ or something. Harry actually cries, snot all over his face when he recovers enough to notice, and he self-consciously wipes it on the back of his still-tingling hand before Louis, who collapses on top of him in a mess of sweat and laboured breath, notices. “Are you okay?” Louis asks then, voice muffled and hoarse and warm against Harry’s neck. “You’re shaking,” he adds, even though he's the one who's a boneless heap of limbs all over Harry, and he’s shaking, too. _ _

__“M’great,” Harry manages to answer, though it comes out sort of messy and incoherent. “I’m…yeah. Like I said, best day of m’life.”_ _

__Louis kisses his pulse, which makes him sniffle even more, and then he peels back carefully, raising himself on tremulous arms. “You did good, by the way,” he praises, smoothing his fingers over Harry's chest carefully, like it might slow the frantic chaos of his heart, which is still beating itself to death in his ribs. “Better than good.”_ _

__Harry’s so, _so_ relieved to hear this that his eyes start leaking again, right down his cheeks. So much for Louis not noticing that he’s been moved to tears by this whole thing. Louis doesn’t say anything about it, though, just reaches for Harry’s face and cups it gently, thumbing over his flushed, sticky cheeks to collect the dampness. Then he brings his fingers to his mouth to lick the salt away. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Kind of just wanna stay here, sitting on your cock, staring at you all day. But I also wanna kiss you. And clean you up. And have a smoke.” _ _

__Harry finally, finally makes himself speak again. “No smokes,” is what he says, wheezing._ _

__Louis looks at him and quirks up an eyebrow, affronted. “Pardon?”_ _

__“Remember?” Harry prods, stomach tightening as Louis shifts a little on his softening, overstimulated cock. “You’re supposed to be quitting.”_ _

__“Ah, right,” Louis sighs, as if he really _has_ just remembered. “I am. Fuck. I always want a smoke after I come…,” he trails off, making a face and shaking his hair out before he turns to Harry. “Guess I’ll need you to keep distracting me, then.” _ _

__Harry’s heart stops. “Want me to hit you again?”_ _

__“Nah,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Lie here with me and let me snog you. But first, lemme clean you up? That okay?” he asks, head cocked and smile soft and lovely. Jesus, Harry really likes this after-sex Louis, the one who wants to look at him and kiss him and _lie with him in his bed_ , promising him kisses instead of smoke. He feels absurdly lucky and sort of undeserving, but he’s not complaining. _ _

__“Okay,” he tells him. “Sounds really nice.”_ _

__Louis braces his hands on Harry’s shoulders and steadies himself before slowly, slowly lifting himself off Harry’s cock, face screwed up for a moment before he lets out a messy breath, thighs quaking. It’s beautiful and scary, and Harry feels really vulnerable, somehow. Once Louis’s off, he’s digging around in his bookbag again, grabbing tissues and _baby wipes_ , and who fucking knew that some guys keep handy little sex kits on their four-posters? Not Harry. _ _

__In one easy motion, Louis pulls the condom off, turning it inside out and getting come all over his hand so that he can fucking _lick it off_ , all cheeky like, and Harry wants to remind him that the whole reason they used a rubber in the first place was to _avoid_ the mess, but watching Louis’s lashes flutter against his cheek in overwhelm, listening to the soft, breathy moan he makes as he eats Harry’s come wipes his mind free of all intelligent thought, so he doesn't say anything. _ _

__Louis wipes himself up first before cleaning his come off Harry's stomach, tossing the wipes in the little rubbish bin beside his bed before arranging himself carefully between Harry’s bent knees so that he can gently dab the come and lube off Harry’s dick. But then he gets so lost in the process that he clearly forgets what he’s doing and why he’s doing it because now he’s just sitting there between Harry's legs, carefully cupping his balls, sheathing his cock in its foreskin, threading his fingers through his pubic hair, and just, like, _staring_ at him, playing with him, breath held. It’s, like….simultaneously the nicest and weirdest thing that Harry’s ever had to deal with. Louis’s staring at his junk _so_ closely and so reverently, but it isn’t even hard or sexy or impressive at all right now, so Harry feels raw, flayed open, examined in a way that makes him blush. He didn't know that people actually do things like this. “What are you looking at?” he asks in a rumble, craning his neck off the pillow. _ _

__Louis starts a little, gaze flicking up to hold Harry’s, cheeks pink like he didn’t even realize what he was doing. “You,” he answers simply, thumbing up the underside of Harry’s cock before clambering over him on all fours and collapsing beside him._ _

__“You’re obsessed with my dick,” Harry observes._ _

__Louis props himself up on one elbow and smooths Harry’s curls away from his face, gently tucking one behind his ear. Harry feels so….so _seen_ and cared for and _loved_ , even, that tears spring to his eyes again, but there’s nowhere to hide because Louis’s just _looking_ at him, all the time. “I am,” is what he says after a moment, settling his body so close that Harry can feel the thud of his heartbeat, solid and steady, like a promise. “But to be fair, I’m obsessed with the rest of you, too, so it seems like a technicality,” he explains, shrugging. _ _

__Harry doesn't know what to say to that. It just…doesn't seem real. Louis Tomlinson wanting to fuck him or ride his cock? Maybe. But being _obsessed with him?_ There’s just…no way. He rubs his palms over his face in overwhelm, stunned and shivery when he notices that he can smell the salty musk of Louis’s cock on his fingers. “Do you still want a cigarette?” he asks, unable to actually address the shit that Louis’s saying. It’s too much. “Or…did you want to snog?” _ _

__Louis trails his fingers up Harry’s chest, stopping to thumb over his nipple, playing with it until it’s hard and Harry’s trembling. “I still want a cigarette, yeah,” he sighs, bending his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to Harry's throat. “But I’d rather snog you. All day, actually, like, when I wanted to smoke earlier? Wanted to kiss you more.”_ _

__“I wanted to kiss you, too,” Harry admits, pulse speeding up under Louis’s lips as he says it, even this small, fragile confession, which pales in comparison to what Louis’s saying, pales in comparison to the truth._ _

__“Mmmm,” Louis murmurs, threading his fingers through Harry’s hair and making a fist in it, turning Harry’s head so that he’s facing him, so that their breath huffs out together and mingles. “Yeah? You thought about it?”_ _

__“A lot,” Harry tells him, throat tight now that he’s looking at Louis so _close_ , Louis’s pink, chewed lips and his long lashes and the constellation of freckles on his cheek that would make a lovely, lopsided triangle if Harry were to connect them with the tip of his finger. He can’t believe that he’s in this boy’s bed, can’t believe that _this boy_ wants him, is petting his hair, is twirling the curls around his fingers. He can’t believe that he made this boy _come_ on his _cock_. He shivers, brave enough at least in this moment to add, “Sort of embarrassing, actually, but I’ve liked you for a long time. Like, today wasn’t the first time I’d thought about kissing you.” _ _

__Louis beams, smile so bright and electric and contagious that it’s like lightning, and Harry’s struck by it, has to smile back. “That makes two of us, then,” Louis says, fingers skirting down Harry’s cheek to touch his dimple. “Gemma’s ridiculously hot brother.”_ _

__Harry’s gasp turns into an affronted squawk. “You called me that?” he asks, stunned that Louis could have even _noticed_ him before today, seen him as someone marginally interesting or worth thinking about at all, let alone as _ridiculously hot_. He feels himself blush under Louis’s hand and squirms, embarrassed and delighted. _ _

__“Yeah, to anyone who would listen,” Louis shrugs, as it isn’t a big deal, as if he hasn’t shaken the very foundation of Harry's recollection of every interaction they've ever shared. “Thought you were cute for _ages_...ever since you moved here, in fact. Became Gemma’s friend because of it, really, but you were always so quiet that I sort of thought you weren’t interested. If’m honest, I asked you to hang out today for reconnaissance…to see if you were maybe gay. If I could ask you out. Clearly, this went very well for me.” _ _

__Harry’s throat bobs as he swallows, cheeks burning, mind reeling as he processes. Little bits about their conversation come back to him now, suddenly making sense, the pieces falling into place. Louis _was_ flirting, he _was_ trying to get a feel for where Harry stood. _If I could ask you out_. God. “I thought you wanted someone to keep you from smoking,” Harry frowns. _ _

__Louis rolls his eyes, thumbing over the turned down corner of Harry’s mouth, as if trying to smooth the pout away. “I _did_ , obviously. But I actually do have friends who could have done it, too…your sister, for one,” he explains. “But I chose you because I, like…needed an excuse to spend time around you. V’been too nervous to just _ask_.” _ _

__Harry shakes his head because it’s very, very hard to believe that Louis’s, like…intimidated by him. He can’t imagine Louis feeling honest-to-god nervous about _anything_ , let alone about spending time with Harry, talking to _Harry_. “Do you…still want to ask me out? Or is this, like, a sex thing?” Harry asks, and then he wishes he hadn’t because it sounds like an ultimatum or something, and although he _does_ have a preference and would absolutely _love_ to be Louis’s boyfriend, he’ll also be his living sex toy if that’s what he wants. He’ll take whatever consolation prize Louis has to offer. “Erm, either is fine, by the way. I’m already, like, _shocked_ that any of this happened at all, so anything after is….more than I could have ever hoped for.” Harry sounds pitiful and desperate, but Louis leans in and kisses him hard, so it must not be a bad thing. _ _

__When Louis pulls away, he tells him, “I very much want to ask you out, or take you out, whatever,” as he tugs at Harry’s hair a bit, spreading him out on his back and rolling on top of him, weight crushing and delicious and solid and sure. “But I also very, _very_ much want you to fuck me again, too. And to fuck you. And to use your mouth and suck you off and do basically anything you’ll let me,” he says, and, _god, fuck_ , Harry’s incinerating, his heart’s beating so hard that his chest hurts, and he feels like he's in danger of splitting open, of bleeding all over this bed. “So, I guess it’s a sex thing, too. If that’s all right,” Louis adds. _ _

__It’s definitely alright. It’s everything that Harry’s ever wanted, so much so that he might start crying again if he speaks, so he just nods rapidly, eyes wet and hazy in a way that he knows is probably revealing the depth of his feelings but whatever. Louis’s staring back at him, all smiley and kind, like he thinks he’s lucky, too._ _

__“You know what else?” Louis asks, cocking his head before he leans in and nips at Harry’s chin. Harry doesn’t know, so he shakes his head, his vocabulary tragically reduced to physical head motions. “The whole time we were fucking? I didn’t think of smoking _once_. Just thought about you, your skin, the way you smell…fuck. Totally lost in it,” Louis marvels, voice suddenly soft and high, needling into Harry’s solar plexus and making him feel crazy, dizzy even though he’s lying down. “Probably means we should have sex all the time. Reduce my cravings,” Louis tacks on at the end. _ _

__“I can do that,” Harry manages to say, nuzzling into Louis’s hair and inhaling, hands palming down his back to cup his arse again because apparently that’s just something that he can _do_ now, something he’s allowed. “I’m probably better at that than hitting you.” _ _

__“Definitely,” Louis agrees, licking the seam of Harry’s lips teasingly before adding, “Now, about that snogging?”_ _

__Harry smiles, closes his eyes, and lets Louis kiss him blind._ _


End file.
